


A Place Between

by Pisan_Zapra



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Mythology/Religion, Assassins & Hitmen, Cynicism, Jedha, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Monks, Prequel, Religion, The Force
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 17:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10470174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pisan_Zapra/pseuds/Pisan_Zapra
Summary: Before Jyn Erso and Cassian Andor landed on Jedha, it was the damned life for Baze Malbus.But what exactly did this damned life entail?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [20thcenturyvole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/20thcenturyvole/gifts).



> I love these two. Love, love, love, love, love. And, now, I feel like I have more of an appreciation for them, after reading more about them and their backstories on various websites.
> 
> Thank you, 20th Century Vole, for requesting some "Pre-movie slice-of-life stuff" and asking "How hard are they living? What do they do to relax? What do they have to compromise?"
> 
> This was positively delightful, writing this bit and peeking into the cohabitation of Baze Malbus and Chirrut Îmwe.

Jedha, a moon of NaJedha in the Jedha system.  A place between places, so to speak, or a or situation between divinity and damnation.  Not exactly in a homogenous way, like if you’d mixed a dark liquor with something light and produced a drink of a color in the middle of that spectrum.  More like if you’d tossed kyber crystals into a pile of ordinary rocks.  (Why you would do that, especially with something so rare and sacred as those crystals, is beyond anyone’s guess, but, for the sake of this, imagine it.)  The lunar populace tended to have an address in one region or the other, to consider themselves among the divine or the damned, whether they knew it or not, and, although they would interact with one another, the parts more or less remained unaffected by the others.

That was more or less how Baze Malbus saw it.  And he’d probably put it in a less eloquent way, if he ever shared this philosophy with anyone other than Îmwe, for at least three reasons: (1) it was much easier to think things like this but harder to express these thoughts, unless in the right sort of company; (2) the sorts of people who Baze dealt with on a daily basis, other than Îmwe, tended to mistrust anyone with a degree of education beyond ‘stab the person when paid right amount of money’, and (3) if one spoke of such things, while adopting the right sort of eloquence, the people he’d share these things with could easily mistake these observations as some initiation for conversation.  Really, it was only Îmwe that Malbus preferred having talks like this with.  

On such topics, like any topics, market merchants always turned discussion back to their wares or some rival that needed to be eliminated.  Most street urchins were always willing to listen, if given food first; they would always nod politely, interject with an affirmation, but could never comprehend what exactly was told to them.  (Even if the urchins never understood what he’d tell them, Baze still took care to share what food he’d have with them.  Because, even if damned, he wasn’t entirely awful.)  Baze would eat his own weapon before interacting with anyone serving the Galactic Empire.  The other Guardians of the Whills were the most obnoxious, always unsubtly finding some way to wheedle him back into their ranks with a promise he wouldn’t be damned any longer if he stuck with them and a reminder of how close he’d been to building a bowcaster.

As if he had any use for a holy relic bowcaster, when a repeater cannon served Baze Malbus well.

Baze would work during the day, calling his shots and taking them well, and spend his nights in the company of Chirrut.  Whatever could be pooled by his contracts and the ‘donations’ earned by Îmwe’s itinerant preaching, they’d spend on food and temporary quarters.  Renting a permanent residence seemed pointless for a wandering monk and a hired gun.  After they’d given what food they’d earned to any listening street urchins and placed whatever scrap of meat or bit of bread was left over on the wooden table of whatever cramped living space they’d afforded themselves, Baze would share thoughts like this along with any others that happened upon him while he’d worked.

Îmwe would probably smile his wide sort of grin, the one you only gave out to family members you hadn’t seen in ages, and, yet, Îmwe seemed to give it to even strangers; he’d listen carefully, when Baze would talk about things like this, and lean in close to ask the questions none of the others bothered to ask.

“What do you define as damnation, old friend,” Chirrut would probably ask.

With Guardians of the Whills, there was a doctrine Baze was taught and that most other monks regurgitated.  But, as far as Baze was concerned, those lessons were stolen by the Galactic forces, along with the holy relics they’d seized, and demolished along with the Temple of the Kyber.  Malbus’ concept of damnation no longer matched the Guardians’ or most anyone else’s.

“It isn’t being separated from the Force,” Malbus would heartily reject the teachings of the Whills.  “It’s being bound inextricably to stupid matters that concern people.  Having to sweat and work like a dog, day in and out, just to bring table scraps to a home I don’t even own.  And the most damning part of it is that I’ve become aware, yet, if I told most anyone, they wouldn’t believe me.”

And Chirrut, with his features carved out by the shadows of night and the yellowing light provided by the cheap lantern afforded to them, would give a nod and purse his lips so carefully, before quickly firing back, “I’m sorry that I’m going to have to tell you that I don’t agree with you, my friend.”

“And why is that,” Baze would question, not once shifting out of the easy backwards lean he’d worked himself into.

“Because, as you tell me this, I regret to inform you that I do believe you,” Îmwe would respond, flashing his very characteristic smile.  “That is a definition of damnation I know you would hold to.”  Cheeky Guardian.

Baze knew well that he wouldn’t help but let out a dark chuckle at a smart response like that.

Instead of finding some way to reroute Malbus’ beliefs so that they aligned once more with the Whills, as the other Guardians would have done, Chirrut would venture to ask, “would you care to enlighten me with your views of divinity?”

“Divinity isn’t being united with the Force,” Malbus would so readily define to his compatriot, rejecting yet another central tenet to the Guardians of the Whills.  “It’s living, sweating, working on stupid things and being bound to them.  Like I realized I am.  Yet, it’s being ignorant and lacking the awareness I gained over this situation.”

And Chirrut would be unable to stifle a laugh of his own, instead raising a glass to his own mouth and professing, “by your definition, I suppose I must be damned as well.”

“I suppose you are,” Baze Malbus would agree and, after such a claim, punctuate it with an enthusiastic bite into some very fatty thing that had been sold to them as meat.  

Chirrut Îmwe had claimed many things like that in the company of Baze Malbus, things you typically didn’t associate with monks or Guardians of the Whills that were holy enough to have built fully functional bowcasters.

And the hired killer wouldn’t be able to help but ask the monk, “Aren’t you going to make me ask what you think about damnation and divinity?”

“You already have been taught my beliefs,” Chirrut would recall to his old friend, his former fellow monk and Guardian of the Whills, before downing a glass of whatever liquid they could afford that night.  “I just didn’t want to insult your intelligence.”

Talks like this were what made things work so well and, dare Malbus believe,  made this period Imperial Occupation almost tolerable.  Almost.  Still, it felt good to be damned with someone that made for such good company.


End file.
